


Tale of Christopher Queens

by thebigempty (SP4CEC4DET)



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, M/M, Murder, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Self-Harm, the OC has it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SP4CEC4DET/pseuds/thebigempty
Summary: Christopher is a typical, kind of fucked up kid in their senior year of high school. Thank god they found a boy who is just as messed up as they are.





	1. First Day

**Author's Note:**

> cringe culture is dead have some oc x canon

Lunch period. First day of school. Hazing time for new kids. It doesn't help at all that I've started in the beginning of the second quarter--all the cliques have established themselves so I'm a sore thumb sitting by myself at a table in the back (by the bathrooms, oh joy).

"Hey."

I look up, not the least bit startled to see a beefy older boy--he's probably a senior like me but looks like he should be on a college football team.

"Hello." I keep my reply flat. Better to let him make the first move.

"You're that kid Maddie showed around, right? Christopher?"

Maddie--she'd introduced herself as Madeline--was the Student Body President. She'd greeted me before the first bell and took me around throughout home room. She had also warned me about her boyfriend.

"Yeah," I smile politely, "You must be Brandon. She mentioned you."

"She mention I was her boyfriend?"

"Yes it came up."

"The fuck you wearing a sweater for, dipshit?" A taller boy behind Brandon speaks up. "Still hot as dicks out."

I try not to visibly tense. Wearing long sleeves or not was a very hard choice that morning--to be ridiculed for my scars, or questioned into showing them off. Luckily, I have an excuse I hope can make it through any potential bully's thick skull.

"My last school didn't know how to turn an AC down. Turns out the basement classrooms here have the same problem."

Brandon and the two other guys with him nod amiably and shift their various letter jackets in their arms, but the guy who questioned me doesn't seem convinced.

"What period you got for gym?" he asks.

"Next."

"Nice!" Brandon barks out a laugh. "See you there punk. I'll try and get you on our team so you don't end your first day here in a body cast."

It doesn't sound like a threat, more like a boast. And the way the other three chuckle as they walk off makes me feel like I've passed the test. At least...until gym.

"Queens!" the gym teacher calls, "Christopher Queens?"

"Here," I reply and raise a hand.

"Queens, we're you allowed your sweater at your old school?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, welcome to Westerberg. You aren't allowed it here."

I sigh as I work it off. I knew I would end up sweating off the concealer on my face by the end of gym but I was hoping to delay the reveal until then. I pull off my maroon hoodie and resolutely avoid eye contact with the guy and girl next to me. The guy doesn't do anything. The girl shifts away.

My arms (as well as most of the rest of me) are covered in scars. Most are tiny, simply me picking at any available inch of skin as one does with excoriation disorder, but I know my left arm (the side the girl is on, so I don't blame her for moving) has three long, gnarled ones down the length. All eyes are immediately on me, including, to my chagrin, the tall guy from earlier--Holt Byers. The gym teach doesn't even hesitate as he continues with the last two kids on the list and ushers US to stand against the back wall to get ready for a time old classic--dodge ball.

"Sir, may I use the restroom," I ask the teacher. He gives me a hard look.

"If you aren't out in five, Queens, I will send someone after you."

"Yes, sir."

I'm not in there longer than three minutes--just washing off the now useless concealer. I must spend a minute too long staring at the particularly large scar on my right cheek though--I remember digging a few layers of skin off for that one--because the door opens behind me.

"H-hey."

I turn. It's a small boy with unruly brown hair, a surgical mask over his mouth, and almost as many scars as I have. Tobias, I think his name was. His head twitches to the side as I stare at him.

"Mr. Hobit-t want-ts you back-k."

"Right."

By the time the two of us make it back to the wall, we're two of the five people left not chosen. The two team leaders are, of course, Brandon and Holt. Eventually, it's just me and Tobias.

"Christopher," Holt calls. I can't help the slight sigh of relief at not being totally at the bottom. But then I find out why.

"Man, don't leave me with Ticci Toby," Brandon moans. The whole. Class. Laughs. The teacher does nothing. Toby's arm twitches violently--almost as violent as then look of hate in his eyes.

"Sucks to suck," Holt grins at his friend.

I immediately throw the game for myself when I see Toby get out--which is surprisingly long into the game. He's fast and good at catching anything incoming. One quick and easy throw to a small girl who clearly needs the boost of confidence from getting someone out and I'm able to jog over to the indoor bleachers and sit next to him.

"So, fuck all these guys, am I right?"

Toby jumps when I speak and eyes me like he doesn't believe what I'm saying.

"What-t?" he forces out.

"The whole class," I shrug, "I mean every high school has their assholes--and I've been to four, I should know--but never has it been literally everyone."

I offer a lopsided grin. After a beat, Toby's eyes crinkle and his masks shifts and I know he's smiling too. Fuck, he's cute. I stick my hand out to shake. He takes it without hesitation.

"Christopher!" A familiar voices calls as I wait with Toby for the bus. It turns out we're neighbors. Despite the obvious loss I've achieved in the bullshit high school social circles, I'm calling today a win for that alone. I turn to the voice, mid laugh at one of Toby's jokes. It's Madeline from this morning. I hear Toby's laugh die in his throat and internally steel myself for both our sakes.

"How was your first day?" she asks politely. She blinks and her smile falters as her eyes land on the scars on my face and the boy behind me.

"Really good," I nod without missing a beat, "Made a friend already."

"O-oh that's great!" She easily bounces back to cheer, though it may be a little forced. "I hope none of your classes were too hard. No one gave you a hard time?"

"Nah," I shrug, "Your BF's kinda a jerk though." Toby gasps behind me and grabs my shirt in warning, but I know what I'm getting into.

"I...I'm sorry about him..." Her smile falls completely this time.

"Don't apologize," I shake my head, "You aren't his mom. You can't stop him or his friends."

"I...say, did I give you my number this morning?" she asks, her smile small but more genuine.

"I don't believe so."

"Well, here!" She grabs a pen from her back pocket and I offer my wrist for her to scribble it down (a voice in my head yells but years of practice mean I will last long enough for me to wash rather than scratch it off).

Toby tugs my shirt and I look over my should to see Brandon watching Maddie and I. I offer a small wave, alerting Maddie to his presence too.

"Oh, uh," she steps back hurriedly, "W-well let me know if you need any help with any of your homework! See you tomorrow, Chris! Toby!"

"She said-d m-my name," Toby says in awe as she dashes to her boyfriend's side and leads him away.

"Yep. She seems nice like that."

"She isn't usually."

I turn back to him with a worried look. He looks away and his shoulders jump. I can't tell yet if that was a shrug or tic or both.

"Brandon seems like a bad influence on her."

"He's gonna k-k-k-kick-k your ass t-tomorrow."

"Nothing I can't handle Tobes don't--"

"Toby." His voice is cold.

"Toby." I correct myself and file that away for later. Everyone has a nickname they hate. "Don't worry about me."

The next morning, a hand slams into the locker next to me. Toby jumps at my side but Brandon is focused on me.

"You trying to steal my girl, Queens?"

"Hello Brandon," I greet him, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"She said you asked for her number yesterday," he nearly snarls.

I raise an eyebrow. That's definitely not how it went. Maybe this brute isn't just trouble for people like me and Toby.

"Yes," I lie effortlessly, placing the last picture on my door and turning to him finally, "In case I needed homework help."

"That's every guy's excuse," he scoffs, "You better convince me real quick if you don't wanna leave gym in a body cast today."

That time, it sounds like a threat.

"How's this?" I glace at the picture I hung--a very obvious rainbow flag--before getting up in Brandon's face, "I'm gay, idiot."

Toby fails to stifle a gasp behind me. Brandon finally takes notice of him and looks at him with a sneer. I lean into his vision, bringing his focus back to me.

"Oh yeah, I can see it now." He snickers. "Queer Queens and T-T-Ticci Toby. The perfect couple." He pushes off the locker wall and rams my shoulder as he walks away. He jumps at Toby with a grunt and Toby squeaks and recoils.

"They really just...describe a person to bully them, don't they?" I deadpan as I watch him go.

"I t-t-t-told you," Toby grumbles, "You shouldn't-t-t be friend-ds with m-m-me."

"And I told you," I sling my arm over his shoulder--we're the same age but he's about six inches shorter than me. "I like you. Besides, we crazies have to stick together. So we can be safe when one of us snaps."

My voice wavers with the joke, unsure how it'll fall. Toby was making some pretty morbid jokes last night but you never know. To my relief, he laughs behind his mask. I briefly wonder what he looks like behind it before we are swept off to out homeroom, which it turns out we have together.

I know what hardships are ahead, but I can't help but be excited for the new year and new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i (probably) don't have OCD but probably have excoriation disorder either way i'm sorry if i mess it up  
> i also don't have anything toby has--bipolar, tourettes, CIPA, schizophrenia--so i'm sorry if i mess those up as well  
> feel free to correct me if you have any of those disorders
> 
> Edit: yeah i changed their name because i have different plans for carter :3c


	2. Sharing Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm....not totally sure the stutter/vocal tic is canon to toby but i wanted to practice writing it so this version of him gets it

One Friday, Toby isn't at school.

I am naturally, quite worried. I don't know the exact extent of his mental health issues, but I know enough to be worried, especially with the raised voices I hear sometimes coming from his house. Luckily, it shouldn't be that hard to check on him with the system we've figured out in these few weeks.

I open my window and scoop up the squishy toy on a string and hurl it at his. It hits the glass with aa satisfying slap. We happen both have upstairs bedrooms that face each other. Both houses also have a wraparound porch with a sturdy cover so if I really need to, I can hop the foot gap and get to his room.

It seems like I might need to when his room doesn't show any signs of life after the third slap. I can hear his father stomping around in the rooms below so I try my best to be quiet as I step carefully out onto my side of the ledge and onto his. I clamber up to his window and rap my knuckles against is gently. I can't help but pick at the rough parts of my palm as I wait.

"G-g-g-go away C-C-C-Chris-s," I eventually hear.

Part of me wants to listen. At least I know he's alive still. But what kind of friend would that make me.

"Where were you today, Toby?" I press my forehead against the glass.

"I said-d-d-d g-g-g-g--"

"Toby," I plead. I hate interrupting him when he stutters, but I'm desperate. The word turns to a frustrated growl in his throat.

"I'm sick-k-k-k, C-Chris-s. G-g-go away."

"Let me come over and cheer you up," I say gently, "I can bring across soup and my laptop."

"N-n-no."

"Can I at least see you?"

I hear him huff and his voice is louder the next time he speaks, like he's right in front of me with nothing but the glass and his curtains separating us.

"I...I don't-t have a-a mask."

"I don't care what you look like, Toby. Please."

There's a pause. Then I see his scarred fingers part the curtains. I don't even look at his face right away as I am immensely distracted by his bare chest--it's pale and not as scarred as my own but the ones he does sport are much larger than mine. He also has a huge, ugly bruise blooming on his shoulder. His arm flinches up and his head twitches and my eyes follow to his face. His lips are so pouty and look lovely with his amber eyes--despite the sorrow in them and the inch and a half long hole in his cheek.

"Th-th-there," Toby huffs, "N-n-now you c-c-c-can hat-t-t-te me t-t-t-too."

"Toby," I smile up at him, "why on earth would I hate you? We match!" I point at my own cheek wound and grin at him. He smiles dispite himself and unlocks his window.

"You sure you don't want me to bring anything over?" I ask for the tenth time. His room is unbelievably bare--just his bed, a desk, and a laundry basket. Even the walls are bare beige. But he shakes his head with a laugh again.

"Really, C-Chris-s, I'm fine."

"You certainly seem it," I tease, "not sick at all."

His face drops at that and I know I said the wrong thing. He's easy to read like that (well, easier than most).

"I'm s-s-s-sorry."

"No, Toby, I'm sorry I teased."

"Y-you're my only f-friend. My f-f-f-irst-t friend-d. I should-d hav-ve t-t-t-told you."

"You don't have to."

"T-today's her b-birthday."

I look up from picking at my cuticles. I don't know who he's talking about but the look on his face, I know he's determined to tell me.

"Who's?" I ask softly.

"M-my sist-ter. L-L-L-Lyra."

I didn't know he had a sister. I can guess why though.

"Sh-sh-she-she died las-st-t year. In a c-c-c-car c-c-c-c-c-crash." He gasps as the word makes it out and a few tears fall from his eyes. He's clenching his hands so tight the knuckles are white. I take his hands in mine and pry them apart. I'm not surprised to find he's bleeding. He has quite a few crescent shaped scars on his palms.

"It-t doesn't-t h-hurt-t," he says quietly. His hands jump in mine. "I c-c-can't-t feel p-pain."

"At all?" I say with gentle awe. He shakes his head, and he smiles wryly, though it doesn't reach his eyes, as more tears roll down his cheeks.

"Not-t at-t all."

"I have OCD," I confess a few hours later. We're laying on my bed now. My mom, asshole though she, even brought us cookies.

"Is that-t why you p-pick-k at-t yourself?" Toby asks quietly. I nod.

"I used to do it whenever I found something wrong on my skin--acne, dirt, scars--now I'm covered in 'em. Can't pick everything off as much as my brain says I need to."

"I hav-ve t-t-touret-tes," Toby cirps. His mood has improved a lot since I got him out of his house.

"No shit," I grin. He elbows me in the ribs but he's laughing.

"Shut-t up! I have t-touret-tes and bipolar disorder and CIPA."

The bipolar isn't a huge surprise to me. I've seen him shift moods without warning. I'm not sure I know what CIPA is.

"Is that why you said you can't feel pain?" He nods.

"Or t-temperature."

"Wild."

He nods again and we fall into silence. I chew my cheek as I consider how to go on.

"I have BPD--borderline personality disorder. And anxiety. That's kind of a given though."

He nods again but he's looking at me now. I can't bring myself to look back. This is all stuff I haven't ever told anyone at any school. I contemplate telling him the rest too.

"I think-k I have schizophrenia," he says quietly.

I face him at that. His eyes are wide and if I didn't know better, I'd say he looks scared.

"I think I'm a psychopath," I whisper back.

"Ever since Lyra died I see a faceless man stalking me."

"I almost killed a kid in middle school."

We stare at each other. I've only known this boy for maybe a month and he knows more about me than anyone, even my family. But I get the feeling Toby's shared just as much about himself with me. We slowly turn on our sides to face each other totally. We were close before but now or chests brush together as we breathe almost in sync. I silently thank him for throwing on a T-shirt before he came over. I'm pretty sure I'm going to combust just looking at his face right now. He's somehow striking and cute, like if media didn't care about things like being pale or gaunt or having deep bags under your eyes or holes in your cheeks he would be swept up by a boy band manager in a heartbeat.

"Christopher," he whispers. My heart flutters when his voice doesn't.

"Yes?" I reply, just as quiet.

"I'm really glad we're friends." His fingers twitch slightly as his hand find mine between us. Of course I let him lace his fingers in mine.

"Me too," I breathe, though it feels a little hard to when I realize he's brought his face closer to mine. I feel his breath on my lips. I notice, right before he closes them, that his rich brown eyes are flecked with green. Then he kisses me.

It is the most innocent thing, just closed lips pressed softly to closes lips, but I can't help the way my toes curl and how I sigh as my eyes drift close. Toby shifts closer to me, now steady hand sliding up my arm and over my waist. My now free hand gently grabs his shirt just to find purchase. Then he pulls away.

We lay like that well into the night, holding each other, foreheads touching. I know I missed dinner, I know I'll get shit for that in the morning. I know I'll get shit for having a boy over so late too. I know Toby will have to go back to his loud and violent sounding house. But right now none of that matters. It doesn't even matter to me if the kiss was a one time deal. I know Toby and I will be together, in whatever form our relationship takes, for a long, long time.


	3. Safe Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: f*g slur used, abuse mention, blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gey

I know, of course, that the bliss of being sort of queer-platonic-friends with Toby for the first two-ish months of this new life in the new town wouldn't last. But I'm thankful for the two quiet months we got. Every day, after he spent that night at my house, we would go to school together, hands held in secret under our bags at the back of the bus. We'd chat and finish homework in homeroom before going to our other classes. We had lunch and gym together (where we usually got out of whatever death sport the teacher had picked that day in favor of hiding under the bleachers and, occasionly, sharing a secret kiss) before heading home together. Most days he would hop over to my room and we'd work or talk or play video games--Toby is a big fan of my old Zelda games--and he would go home when we both went to dinner. Some nights, usually weekends, he would stay and we would hold each other and comfort each other from whatever horror we'd dealt with that week--I figured out pretty quickly that Toby's dad was beating him. I didn't dare call anyone about it though. Cops don't treat mentally ill kids any better than unarmed people. He knew, too, that my parents were abusive also--not physically, but he knew that wasn't any better. Toby also got to meet my little brother. Michael thought he was odd but he knew that Toby and I were close. I could tell, too, by the way Toby would talk about Lyra sometimes that he knew how much Michael meant to me.

A little more than two peaceful months, brought to a rough end the day before winter break. I'm waiting for Toby to finish with a talk with the principle--having been home schooled before senior year, sometimes logistic things came up like that--when Brandon, Holt, and their two other cronies corner me, backing me up behind a dumpster that put me perfectly out of view of the street for what they had planned for me.

The two who's names I never bothered to learn hold me up by my elbows while Brandon and Holt take turns hitting me. I don't know why Holt hates me so much--some people just want to spill blood--but I guess Brandon still thinks I'm trying to steal Maddie from him. A little confusing, as he keeps calling me "fag" with every other hit. Eventually, with a bruised gut and ribs (some probably cracked), split lips and brows (probably a black eye), a bit and bleeding tongue, and a broken nose, I hear a familiar voice calling for me.

"C-Chris?" Toby calls, his own nerves making him stutter just a bit more. The goons still, Holt holding a finger to his lips. Part of me wants Toby to think I went home without him--something I never do--but I know I need help. I kick my foot back and the dumpster clangs loudly.

"C-Chris?" Toby walks closer and he gasps at the scene.

"Back off, Ticci Toby," Brandon bites, "or your next."

I look up through the blood and tears and my left eye starting to swell up to see Toby shaking. He's dropped his bag on the ground and blood drips from his palms as his nails cut into them, even though I told him last night to trim them.

"Get outta here, Rogers," Holt barks. He scoffs and starts towards him when he doesn't move. That's when I realized they don't know what I know.

Toby can't feel pain.

Holt nails him effortlessly in the gut and though that must leave him some sort of winded, Toby grins behind his mask. He grips Holt's arm and swings down between the jock's legs. Holt stumbles forwards and Toby has a free shot at the poor guy's nuts, which he takes with a look of glee. Holt's shout is high and strangled as he rolls over, holding his "jewels". Brandon, never the brains of the group, takes this moment of Toby laying on his back to charge him. Toby rolls out of the way, an almost maniacal laugh bubbling out of him, and hops up. He grabs Brandon's belt as he barrels past and yanks hard. Brandon squeaks in the most manly was possible and falls on his face. I think I hear his nose crunch.

The other two guys drop me, I wince as I land on my knees. Toby whips around, a dangerous look in his eyes as the goons run off, leaving their two supposed friends groaning in the dirt. I watch Toby's gaze land on a rusty pipe next to me and I know if I don't say something this will get too out of hand.

"Toby..." I croak, "Help..."

That snaps him out of it. He still looks pissed beyond belief, but he kneels next to me to help me up. He grabs my bag and I grab his and we head home, our bus long gone.

My father isn't home when we get there and my mother is too into her episode of 'What Not To Wear' to notice Toby and I coming through the front door. I'm thankful. All that would come out of her seeing me is her threatening us moving on me. I can't take that right now. The only reason I'm not peeling my bloodied skin away right now is because my hands are still occupied with Toby's bag and his shoulders. We almost make it to my room without getting caught.

"Holy shit, Chris, what happened?" Michael asks from his doorway, "You look like you fought a meat grinder."

"Do I at least look like I won?" I say through my teeth. If I open them, I'll spit blood everywhere.

Toby doesn't stop until he's sat me on my bed in my room. I motion for the waste basket by my desk and the moment he turns away my nails are at my hands. There's no blood or anything on them but they feel dirty they are dirty they must be. Toby hands me the waste basket and I stop picking. I spit a mouthful of blood onto scrapped drawings and old homework. I wipe my mouth and wince. Immediately, my nails find the tear in my lips and start picking. My right hand drifts up the other side to scratch and poke and prod and peel at the bruise around my left eye.

"Hey!" Michael makes both me and Toby jump. He crosses the room quickly in long strides--two years younger than me but taller already--and yanks my hands from my face. "Where are your gloves?" he demands.

I blink. I don't know. I haven't seen them since my last breakdown. It feel like years ago. Michael huffs and turns to Toby.

"Hold their hands away from them."

Toby steps forward and does as he's told. Michael leaves the room. I can hear him digging around his closet and I feel my skin itch. My finger twitch and Toby pulls them to his chest.

"I'm g-g-g-gonna k-k-kill those g-g-g-guys," he mutters, "for hurt-t-ting your-r pret-ty face. Your-r b-beaut-tiful green eyes..."

Usually, I want to think about anything but my appearance when I have an attack like this. But Toby's voice is full of such love and vengeance I can't help but feel my heart rate slowing. He rests his forehead on mine.

"I sh-should-d k-k-k-kill all of them," he mutters, quieter still, "K-k-k-kill the whole-le sc-c-c-chool. I'll only spare you."

Before I have any time to be alarmed at how unalarming that idea is to me, I hear Michael make a sound of success and return to my room. Toby pulls away from me, holding my hands out for Michael to push the grey, cashmere gloves onto my hands. The familiar softness further soothes my frayed nerves as I rub my fingers together. Michael nods and Toby let's my wrists go.

"How bad did they get you?" Michael asks. I frown.

"Face...chest...stomach..." I say reluctantly. I know what he'll ask for next.

"Okay. Shirt off. And where's the first aid kit."

I shake my head. That's gone too. I got to comfortable with the idea that I might've been getting better.

"Christopher," Michael says warningly and he sounds too much like dad.

"I hav-ve one," Toby pipes up. He hops off my bed and goes to the window. He opens it easily. It's always unlocked for him. He turns back to me a bit. "Jus-st a sec-c."

"Okay, for reals," Michael says, "Get your shirt off."

I sigh and comply. I am a chronic sweater lover so Toby hasn't seen the worst of my scars yet. I guess he will now. Soon enough, he scrambles through my window with a small suitcase. I also notice he discarded his mask. Michael barely bats an eye as the two of them get to work.

In a few minutes they've bandaged my ribs ("Not-t with Ace B-Bandages!"), with Icey-Hots on the most bruised parts, and patched up my face. I'll probably need the makeshift eye-patch for a while.

"Can I take the gloves off now?" I huff as they examine their handy work. Toby looks to Michael for approval and Michael considers.

"I guess," he sighs, "But give them to your...friend. So you have have them just in case at school."

I could put them in my bag or Michael could take them, but he knows as well as I do at this point that Toby is more invested in my safety than I am.

"You c-can say b-boyfriend, Mic-chael," Toby says hotly. He squints at my brother and the only sign to me that he may be nervous is the way his arm flinches upwards. Michael grins.

"So it's official, then? Don't let that get you killed."

"No promises," I huff a laugh. Michael rolls his eyes.

"I'll make sure it's me and not mom who bring you dinner, 'kay?"

"Thanks bro...for everything." I really can't thank him enough. He's always been there for me. He shrugs.

"You can pay me back in those rad lemon bars you make for X-mas," he half jokes as he leave my room, closing the door behind him.

There's a beat as Toby sits next to me.

"You bak-ke?"

"T-tell me about-t this one," Toby mumbles hours later. He convinced me not to put my shirt back on so now he's laying his head on my bare stomach, twitching fingers tracing the three long, choppy scars that extend from my hip. He's been asking about all my scars and telling me stories about his own. Most of mine are uninteresting. This one though...

"I scratched myself," I sigh, "same time as the ones on my arm." He looks up as I show him the scratches on my upper arm and forearm. "It was, uh..." I swallow hard.

"You d-don't-t hav-ve t-to say."

I shake my head. I want to tell him.

"In middle school. This asshole kid latched onto me like a fucking flea." I huff. "Bullied me constantly. One day he thought it'd be hilarious to push the clean freak into a huge mud puddle...I wrestled him down and almost bashed his head in with a rock. I scratched myself when the teachers pulled me off him."

"Oh." Toby is deathly quiet.

"That's also when I did this." I point to my cheek scar. "I was waiting for the principal to convince my parents to come get me and I felt so. Dirty. I had been washed down but. My face. Had been in the dirt."

Toby shifts and grabs my hands as I take a shaky breath. If I wasn't worked up I'd be much more excited about him now straddling my waist.

"I was so sure I was still dirty. I had to get it off."

"I ch-chewed my ch-eek-k off," he replies. I'm a little taken back by how matter of fact he is. "Aft-ter L-Lyra d-died-d. I lock-ked myself in my room for ag-ges. I d-didn't-t even not-tice I'd d-done it-t unt-til my mom convinced-d me t-to come out-t."

I stare at him in awe. He's been through so much shit I feel like my trials pale in comparison (not that it's a competition). But here he is. With me of all people. Sharing his life with me. It gets hard to believe. His grip on my wrists is loose so I have no trouble reaching up and cupping his face in my hands. His own trail down my torso an almost tickle the patchy blonde hair peaking out from my sweat pants. It hardly takes any coaxing for him to lean down and kiss me.

It hurts a little and I wonder if the small band-aid feels odd on his wildly soft lips. His tongue presses gently to the seam of my mouth; he doesn't need to ask twice for me to let him in. I know my inner lip and cheek are rough from chewing and I must taste like copper but, somewhat unsurprisingly, Toby's mouth is the same. I tongue softly at a spot just under the hole in his cheek and he chuckles as he pulls back. We're both panting a bit.

"I l-l-l-love you Christ-topher," Toby whispers.

"I love you too."


	4. A New Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DOMESTIC ABUSE CW

My family let's me stay home for the winter holiday. Usually we all go back to Washington to visit the family but I argued I had homework that I would never get done with twenty little cousins running around. My parents didn't put up much of a fight. I know it upset Michael a little but I know he'd be fine and I know he knows I have Toby.

He spends almost every waking moment at my house (and some not so awake). His mother visited on the night before Christmas Eve with sweets and a kind smile and a remind for him to come over before midnight the next day. Because Toby is spending Christmas Day with his family, I go out to the nearest convince store to buy snacks for latter that night (my parents left me a meager $50 for groceries for the week by my Christmas money from my aunt came early).

I hear the shouting before I turn the corner of the store and slow my steps. It sounds like Brandon and since the last time I saw him he beat the shit out of me, I'm not eager to encounter him again. I peer around the corner and spot Maddie with him--just in time to see his palm collide with her cheek, knocking her down. Suddenly I'm in middle school again. All I hear is the blood rushing in my ears and I know I must turn the corner and grab Brandon by the collar of his shirt but I feel like I'm floating. It's not until Maddie is crying, grabbing my free fist, and begging me to stop that I realize I knocked Brandon down and beat his face over and over and over.

"Y-you have-have to go," she pleads, pulling me up. I see the cashier inside is on the phone. I'm too numb to hope he saw what I saw.

"Come with me." My hand is shaking in hers.

"I--"

"If you stay with him he'll hit you again."

Her watery blue eyes hold my steely ones for a moment. She nods and drags me to her car.

When we get back, Toby is watching TV in my living room. He hops up at the door opening and frantically tries to hide his face when he notices Maddie.

"What-t is she d-d-d--What-t happened-d?" He looks between me with my bloody and bruised fists and Maddie who stopped crying but is still shaking.

"Went to get snacks," I start, "Saw Brandon hit her."

Toby's face immediately darkens.

"You're hands..." Maddie says quietly.

"I'll be okay." I guide her to the couch. Toby shifts nervously as his head twitches to the side.

"I'll get-t the first-st aid kit-t," he says quickly and dashes upstairs.

Maddie sniffles and busy myself by looking at her cheek. I know if I stop I'll make my hands worse. She has a bruise blooming on her sharp cheek bone.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles.

"What for?"

"For getting you involved." She turns from me and I grip the fabric of my pants. I can't have an attack now not with her and Toby here.

"I chose to get involved," I intone, "You didn't even know I was there."

"Brand-don's a jerk-k-k," Toby spits as he comes back down the stairs. He has the striped mask I gave him last night on as well as my costume goggles pushing his hair from his face.

Maddie let's out a wet laugh and though Toby bristles a bit, he joins us on the couch. He hands Maddie a freshly cracked ice pack and towel for her cheek and starts wrapping my knuckles with the cotton bandages he got me. Then on go my gloves.

"Thank you," Maddie says quietly after a while. The three of us had fallen into silence with the TV buzzing some sort of home improvement show in the background.

"Thank you," she repeats, "I...I know I haven't been the kindest...I never stop anyone from mocking you two even though I should as the class president. But you helped me anyways."

"With a bully like Brandon hovering over your shoulder--"

"We get-t it-t," Toby finishes for me.

Maddie beams at us and when she says she needs to head home she hugs us both.

"Promise me you'll tell your parents," I plead.

"If you c-can," Toby adds. She nods and gets into her car.

"Merry Christmas." She waves and we wave back as she drives off.

"I guess she's not-t so bad-d," Toby mumbles. I smile and sling my arm over his shoulders.

"I'll get you some more friends yet, my love," I tease and kiss his temple as we head back inside to our temporary sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for shit to hit the fan soon lol


	5. Feels Like the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think my chapters are shortening but in my defense im cranking them out all at once cos I Gotta Finish lol

After winter break, Toby and I fall back into our usual routine with the exception that now, during some lunches and study sessions, Maddie joins us. It takes time, but Toby warms up to her. She's genuinely kind if a bit awkward with how she manages our particular quirks, but after she announced she had broken up with Brandon and petitioned the principal for a better anti-bullying network, we know she's serious about being our friend.

Toby and I are as close as ever, still a secret from the world, but very in love. Sharing our quiet kisses under the bleaches and quiet nights in my bedroom away from our horrible parents. I can tell though things are getting worse for him--his mood swings are harsher and he has more bruises and cuts than usual and I'm not sure all of them are from his father.

At the end of January, it all comes to a head.

I jolt awake, alone because Toby's father caught him sneaking over the night before. I'm not sure what woke me at first then my brain registers the shrieking sound from Toby's house--the fire alarm. I scramble to my window and trow it open but I can feel the heat from there. His room must be engulfed in flame. I choke on a sob as I watch the flames in his window. Our house's alarm goes off as well but I can't move. My thoughts are only consumed with the fear that Toby is--

"Chris!" Michael snaps me our of my thoughts as he physically drags me away from my window. We pass the kitchen as a wave of heat rolls over us and I realize out house must have caught too. Michael has to force me behind the line of firefighters. He makes me sit on the curb across the street and grabs my face and talks to me. But I can't hear him. I think I'm cry, sobbing, but all I feel is floaty. It's like that day I helped Maddie but I'm cold and numb, not filled with hot anger. I stare across the way at the burning house as a firefighter helps someone out. It's Toby's mother.

Michael eventually gives up on helping me. He sits with me on the curb as an EMT brings me a shock blanket. He doesn't stop me from tearing my cuticles or picking at the scabs from my last fight at school. My gloves were in Toby's school bag and their probably just as charred and ruined as the house where the Rogers family used to live.

The next morning at the motel my parents got, they flip on the news despite Michael pleading with them not to--not with me there. They never listen.

"--also found the body of Frank Rogers, which showed signs of a struggle and lacerations. Their 17 year old son, Tobias Rogers, is still missing and is currently considered a suspect the murder of his father as well as the fire that spread through the neighborhood. If you have any information to the whereabouts of Tobias, please contact the Police Department or call 911."

The picture they show is old. He's not wearing his mask because he doesn't have his cheek wound. He's smiling so wide and looks so happy. It must be from before Lyra's death. The news caster moves on and I feel a lump in my throat. I get up abruptly and ignore my mother's laughter and my father calling me a child.

Outside I let myself cry. It's cold but I just don't care. It feels like my world has been ripped away from me--even if Toby is still alive, there's no way I'll ever see him again. I fall to my knees on the asphalt and sit there for hours. I can't tell if I sleep or just dissociate but eventually, as the sun starts to set, my head clears. I start to shiver as I become aware of the cold and I stretch with a satisfying pop and crunch in my back. My hands immediately go to my scabby knees as I stare at the nearby tree line and prepare myself to go back to my family. Then I see it, and I can't believe my eyes.

At first it looks like a Whit balloon floating in the breeze, then a suited torso, arms, and legs form in the dark of the leaves and my heart jumps in my chest. It's the man Toby told me about. The faceless man. He doesn't move like he's real--and he can't be, he mustn't be--but he does move as if he is trying to obscure something from my vision. Then a sudden movement catches my eye and I start to sob all over again. It must be my grief addled mind but I swear it looks like Toby, my costume goggles on his head, the mask I gave him for Christmas in his face and my gloves tucked into his belt next to two shiny hatchets.


	6. Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MURDER CW

"I'm...sorry to see you go."

"Yeah, me too."

I feel bad for how dull I sound. Maddie is genuinely sad that I'm moving but I just don't have the energy. It's been a week since the fire. Most of our things were salvageable but we still lost our house. My father got a new job opportunity though and, though they think they hid it, I can tell my parents think it was my fault somehow. So it's off to a new city, new school, new bullies. I don't foresee any new friends though.

"Email me? Keep me posted?" Maddie pleads.

I nod and she deflates a bit. She squeezes my shoulder gently and goes back to her car. I don't watch her leave.

That was two years ago.

We've moved a lot since then. Michael is in college but visiting for the winter break. I am still stuck with my parents. Hard to find a job or the motivation to go to school like my brother, especially under all their verbal abuse which has only increased since I graduated high school. They don't even bother to hide it in front of Michael anymore.

"Maybe some rich man needs a boy toy, though. Hm, Christopher?" my mother sneers. I nod vaguely, just trying not to stab a hole in my hand with my fork.

"Mom, c'mon," Michael frowns.

"Leave it, Mikey," our dad puts in, "tough love has gotten him this far. Or maybe it hasn't. He is the layabout gay cousin of the family after all."

"Christ, dad, just shut up," Michael rolls his eyes.

I give up and dig the fork into the back of my hand. No one notices. I can hear my blood pumping in my ears and it drowns out the argument parents and Michael get into. All background noise to the anger and numbness in my skull. Until my mother speaks.

"--just like that Rogers kid. Good riddance, I say."

My chair crashes back with the force I stand up with. All eyes are on me and I glare daggers into my mother's eyes.

"Oh settle down," my father rolls his eyes and he looks too much like Michael. I turn to him, pick up the carving knife from the plate of turkey next to him, and feel the satisfying crunch and squish as I plunge the blade into his skull.

Michael shouts, my mother screams, and I wrench the knife out of his body. My father falls face down on the table. I turn to my mother and my vision goes red. Michael must be yelling at me its probably him that grabs my arm but I throw him back and stalk toward the last source of misery in my life. Something clatters and breaks behind me but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. Nothing has matter for the past two years.

I come to covered in blood. I must have knocked over the candles on the table and on the mantle at some point because the house is burning around me. I can still see my father's corpse on the table and my mother's head is at his feet even though I can see her feet sticking out from the kitchen behind me. But in front of me...

"No." I choke out a sob and grip my head.

Michael is in front of me, the carving knife buried in his chest. He isn't moving.

"No, no, no, no. Not you, I never meant to hurt you."

I cough and sob as the fire spreads around me. There's no point in fleeing, I'd be a dead man anyways with a triple homicide on my case. It's fine though. I can die and burn and I can see Toby again. For real this time, not the hallucinations I've been having for the past two years of him and the faceless man. I feel my head grow heavy and dull with static. The smoke inhalation must be setting in. I cough and there's blood on my lips. I blink slowly up at the faceless man in front of me. Then it's dark.


	7. Coming Home

"--pher! Wak-he up!"

I groan. Whoever that is is way to loud.

"Hey sleepy head-d," the person says, a grinning lilt to his voice. I raise my hands to his face and cover his mouth only to find it's already covered. My fingers trace over cloth and he giggles.

"C'mon, C-Chris-s, we have t-to move."

I blink my eyes open and stare up at the face I never thought I'd see again.

"T...Toby?" I whisper.

"Hello." He must be smiling. His eyes crinkle behind the goggles he stole from me all those years ago.

"Toby, what--"

"You c-can yell at-t me lat-ter. We have t-to go."

With only that as a warning, he pulls me up and starts moving. He guides me through woods I don't recognize but he seems to know like the back of his hands.

"Where are we?" I manage to get out.

"Rosswood-d park-k. Near your house."

That explains why I don't know it. I never went in because I always say the faceless man hovering at its borders.

"Where have you been?" I say as evenly as possible. Toby laughs and the hand holding mine jerks up.

"Sorry--I've been busy. I wanted to see you, but he wouldn't let me. It's okay now though, you're like me now."

That doesn't make the slightest bit of sense to me but I'm too tired to ask more. I just focus on not tripping over roots and twigs as we go deeper into the woods of the park. Eventually we come up on a tunnel.

"This is gonna feel weird-d," Toby warns me as we approach it, "But-t don't-t panic-c. You're safe with me."

The last I heard of Toby, he'd murdered his father and burned the neighborhood down. I'm pretty sure he's the main suspect in a bunch of cases across the US. I should be worried about my safety with him.

But I trust him completely.

He's right, too. As we walk through the tunnel, static presses in on my mind and I cling to his arm so as not to stumble. He's taller than me now, just a little. Coughs wrack my chest and he hands me a torn scrap of fabric that I cough up blood into. His hand grips mine tighter as the static gets louder and it gets hard to breathe and the tunnel seems never ending and there's someone at the end standing over a body and--

We walk into a clearing that has an old, dilapidated farm house in it. Toby turns to me, still smiling, and I return it albeit a bit weakly as I feel like my brain was just scrubbed down with steel wool.

He turns to face me and pulls his mask away--the very same one I gave him forever ago--and pushes his goggles up. He's smiling and I swear their are tears in his eyes.

"I missed you Christ-topher," he mutters, his free hand cupping my cheek.

"I missed you too," I reply, just as quiet.

I have a million questions--about him, this place, the faceless man that must be real now because what else could possibly explain any of this--but none of it makes it out as his lips find mine and I know I've finally come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //jazz hands  
> thanks for reading my self indulgent nonsense i'll probably wrote more of them some day


End file.
